Verdict

If I laid in that bed, organically dependent on some unpronounceable liquid, I don't know what color I would want the walls.

You often see a pale yellow. Perhaps with a subtle ornate pattern.
Faded yellow. A stained white.

To me, this is so stereotypical of the end. A shotty system that allowed me to finish here. Everyday I'd wake up surprised and thankful, only to see those yellow walls and remember that everyday will be like that for the rest of what I would presume to be a short life. I would stay awake all day and think about it, distracting myself with petty things in a desperate attempt not to regret.

White walls would be clean. Words like sterile and clean would flash through my mind. Perhaps I would wake up thinking that it already was the end. Then again, I would wake up and realize that this was too artificial. The clouds would never be this pure. The noise I see would only exist in the fluid of my eyes.

Maybe royal blue, something that lets me know that I'm still here. Something that would calm me down. Maybe I would remember you and expect you to walk through that door as if things were just like yesterday. I don't know what I would expect, really. Maybe an old friend, maybe someone that is no longer with me. I don't know want to think about that inevitable day. It scares me. It pulls at me, reminding me to cherish what is now. This is now.

It makes me want to be adventurous, but instead I sit and stare. I day dream all day in a way that I despise and love. In here, anything can happen. I am not the same man every day. I am not the line drawn in the sand. I am that something. Anything could happen. I could stare into eyes that show no disgust, no apologies. I would listen for a voice that brings me back. I would lay down with a body that is accepting.

On the other hand, that isn't happening at all.

I am not staring into those eyes, listening to that voice, lying with that body.

I am here.

Staring at the royal blue.

Yes.